Kink
by AudeTheThird
Summary: Not that kind of kink. Everyone has a little OCD they obey without knowing why. She calls it habit, but habits can be broken. Just a cute little something that was pumped out in an hour. Protective!Clint is my favorite kind.


"What's up with Red?"

Clint looked up from his comic to Tony, who had his head cocked so far to the side it was on an increasingly uncomfortable angle. He glanced at Nat, who was folded into a complex looking pretzel on the couch, her hands framing something hidden behind her fingers.

"She's having breakfast." Clint offered mildly, and bent his head back to his comic.

"But... Why is she mauling it?"

"She's not. Don't worry about it."

"She looks like the cat who stole the cream. And the canary. And the cat-nip. Is fruit her cat-nip?"

"It's just a habit," Natasha said evenly, only acknowledging him with her voice. "Like you don't have a hundred and three."

"Yeah but - why?"

"Because I can." was her very polite, very dangerous, reply.

* * *

She personally identified it as a habit, but Clint had reminded her time and time again that habits could be broken, and well -

This just, couldn't.

It was hard to explain. You couldn't really, put it into words, the _why_ of it. All she knew was the _feeling_ of it. The satisfaction. The relaxation of a job well done. Something like an anchor.

It was a habit, like any other habit, why do you do the things you do? Because that's how you're used to doing them, of course.

Clint called it a 'quirk' and shrugged it off. Phil had been the hardest to come to terms with it. He tried to strain it from her but it was fruitless.

The grape-peeling was a part of her.

At first she'd dig her nail it, burst the skin, watch the juices bead at the wound. She'd swallow once, the remnants of her last victim, unless she was just beginning. She'd pull it open, just a little bit, between two thumbs, delicately handling the ruination as though she were being paid to do so. She would pry open the grape just enough to slide her teeth into the forged seam and catch it lightly, draw it away from the body with slow, precise precision.

Occasionally the grape would be flawed and it would tear in such an unsatisfying way that she wouldn't bother with it - spit out the skin, flick the grape away, start again, the same process, until she'd pulled the skin off in one neat strip, all the way around. She'd tuck the skin up in her gums and turn the grape to peel it from the bottom, then the top, hiding away the skin until the grape was wrinkles and juicy, and she could slice her teeth through it in half.

From half, she'd half it again, then again, finally placing the remains on her tongue and removing the skin from the nooks and crannies of her mouth. The whole process could last from a handful of seconds to minutes, her extremes were entirely dependent on her mood.

The grape-peeling was something that she only showed to people, if at all. She never said a word about it because it wasn't a problem, it was just something she did, and had always done. A quirk. And there was nothing wrong with having a quirk, a little bit of weird.

* * *

Clint got defensive when Tony didn't let it go. But he was a sniper; by trade, he was typically all about stealth. So rather than put an arrow in the squillionaire's eye socket as a subtle 'back off, Stark', he decided to make a point to show them that he had a kink too.

A week later, he decided to let his 'it' out. Not that it, you weirdo. The Skittles, thing.

Another morning Natasha had come out of her web to consume human food with the team, and another day she'd chosen to eat grapes, this time, as an afternoon snack. Tony had nudged Bruce, elbowed Steve, nodded to Thor.

"Watch this." he'd said, and proceeded to stare like she was some kind of experiment.

Nothing got his feathers ruffled like when she was studied by people supposed to be on her side. People did it enough to the both of them, and he was fine with it, usually wiped it off his shoulders and went on with his life, but it was different, when they were in a place they were supposed to be calling a 'home base'.

Clint's quirk was time consuming, and that was both the best and worst part of it. It cleared his mind when he had too much going on, and it kept him busy when he was alone and he was wide awake of a night time, his body so used to being alert in stillness he'd forgotten how to get to sleep.

He kept it to himself, his little kink, no one had no clue what it was that he could call a habit. Maybe Natasha, but what didn't she know?

He could keep talking as he did it, or he could come back to it at a later stage, or he could even wipe his arm across his desk and send them flying. It had started when he was a kid and he was lonely. And sometimes when you have nothing better to do and your mind races full of _stuff,_ you pick a thing and you do it because it's easy and it's simple and it makes you feel OK, like you're accomplishing _something_.

M&M's. Skittles. Smarties.

Not blueberries. Didn't make sense, when it was all the same color.

He'd tip them all out onto the nearest flat surface, methodically sort them into their corresponding color groups. He'd sit there and sort through them until none of the colors were touching - very important, that they weren't touching - and then he'd start to eat them. But he was particular about it.

First the largest group. The group with the most color, sixteen yellow skittles. He'd either eat them all in one go or one at a time, no in between. It was one or the other, go big or go slow.

Then the next biggest group, fifteen purple skittles, eating them however he felt the need to - if he was running short on time, if he was being pestered, he'd scoff, choke 'em down. He'd divide them equally amongst his teeth, it was paramount that if one Skittle hit his back tooth on the right, the same color skittle should hit his back tooth on the the next biggest group would be shown a likewise attention, ten green skittles, could come, then the next, eight red skittles, until he was left with the least popular colors in the packet. They were last, the four orange skittles, the least and therefore the most unloved.

Best for last.

Just so they felt a bit better about being left out.

* * *

He dumped the lot on the table and started sorting. Thor took a handful but he didn't mind - they weren't yet sorted, they didn't count. Bruce tried and had his hand smacked away from the green ones, in their pile of seven.

"Don't. I'm sorting." he said, and he saw Natasha look up from her grape, he could literally feel her understanding him. It was weird, that he did it openly in front of them, didn't say a word more about it, just started sorting and sliding one Skittle at a time into it's respective group. Natasha unfolded from her chair, a grape hanging precariously from a piece of skin between her teeth. She sat before Clint, put her bowl down, then went about continuing to eat her breakfast in her own way.

Bruce looked to Tony - Tony to Thor - who was, quite happily munching on his Skittles, pretty much oblivious to the oddities being shared, how they were bonding over these little things they did. Natasha, Steve and Tony seemed quite content; Natasha even offered Steve some grapes, which he politely accepted, popping one into his mouth without a word.

"Ooooh...kay." Tony just raised his brows, shrugged at Thor, then left without another word.

* * *

I have the Skittles quirk, I'm not going to lie!

It feels so satisfying, to share that, in a way someone might understand. It makes sense to me. ;)

All my love,

Aude

x


End file.
